Spider-Man :: Antithesis
by MekQuarrie
Summary: Boy meets girl in the big city. 'Nuff said?
1. Chapter 1

Toshiko dropped her suitcases on the sidewalk. She regretted most of her decisions in getting here to this part of Manhattan. Listening to Jack's smooth talking about her being a vital delegate was a minor act of vanity. Perhaps she would still find something useful to do at the secret U.N. conference on Exterior Intelligence. But the worst decision of all? Luggage.

She did not know how long she would be staying in New York so she had brought everything she might need. In retrospect she should have brought very little and played it by ear. But she liked her own things around her. She did not even know what the hotel would be like yet.

The cabbie from Kennedy had taken the opportunity to personally load all of her bags into the trunk of his vehicle, carefully counting out loud as each piece was stowed. She knew now that he was gleefully securing a surcharge for each piece and the assistance required.

He refused her traveler's checks as she stepped out onto the sidewalk on 35th and pleasantly demanded cash. She reluctantly handed over the few notes she had and watched him flee before a receipt could be secured.

There was no-one waiting.

Tosh thought about the time difference. It was late evening in Wales. She sent an SMS to Gwen in Cardiff. "Where is my contact?" Gwen might help.

To her relief, after a few seconds, there was a reply. "They're at BA check-in. I can find number if you want? :-)"

That's the airport, she thought. She quickly replied "I'm already downtown in the city! They're supposed to meet me at the lodgings."

Within a second Gwen had replied. "Sorry. Not my fault. :-("

Tosh resisted the urge to send a series of accusing question marks and waited for any further info. She was feeling only a little panicked, but she was standing on a sidewalk in a very strange town with lots of money and lots of technical equipment.

"Shit," she whispered to herself. "Just stay calm."

"Got a dime for coffee, lady?" A dishevelled young man sat in a shop doorway. She had not noticed him before. He opened his palm without menace.

She shook her head without words. If she said nothing then hopefully he would not continue to talk to her. That was the idea.

"I can tell you where the nearest ATM is, if that helps?"

She scowled and looked up the avenue again. The traffic never seemed to stop.

"There's a diner across the street that takes credit cards, lady. I could look after your bags while you run over?"

She shook her head, but she noted the pleasant diner. A cup of tea would be great. But the ridiculous conversation was over. Still no sign of her contact. It was typical of U*N*I*T to mess up Torchwood requests. What was holding up Gwen?

"Watch out, lady!"

She scowled and turned to curse at the vagrant. She had been patient.

But when she turned something was swinging toward her face, a giant sack arcing down on a monstrous rope from the rooftops above, its contents glistening and ringing. She tried to move the cases but the weight caused her to twist and buckle and stumble back. She felt the sting of rope brush her cheek, the ring of vibrating metal buzz in her ears.

It was gone and she steadied herself again.

"You alright, lady? I thought you were losing your head for sure. Looked like gold bars and all sorts." He pointed at the receding bundle, a giant sack of ropes swinging violently below a flying, fleeing figure skimming the nearby skyline. She blinked and looked again. She knew a pterodactyl when she saw one. The Torchwood Hub had its own pet dinosaur to see off intruders. Was this the same thing? How could it be?

"One of those bad guys in a costume!" shouted the young man, now on his feet pointing upwards. There was almost glee in his voice. "Looks like he robbed a bank or a circus or something."

The flying figure turned. It was coming back. Now she could see that it was a man in an elaborate frame, a sort of glider with ornate decoration. The propulsion was not visible. Surely he could not have turned in the air just using air currents? But he was coming back.

"Look lady. It's him." The young man was leaping about now, pointing back up the street, back to the source of the original pursuit. Another figure was approaching, but much smaller and agile. It had the same speed, and bounced in a red and blue blur thru the air at building height, but she could not tell how it was moving so fast and so directly.

But she could see that they were going to collide. The glider was swept forward into a bullet shape, the blue and red dot starting to spin. Then bang.

The metal framed flier fell directly to the sidewalk, bounced bodily on the hood of a yellow cab and slid to a terrifying halt on the asphalt in front of Tosh. The traffic separated and swerved in acts of individual panic trying to avoid the damaged vehicle and the injured man.

The absurd figure in the glider twitched on the ground and tried pathetically to unfurled the textile wings. He got to his feet then thrashed about trying again to stabilize his posture.

The agile red-and-blue figure sprang from the roof of a garbage truck down onto the sidewalk and turned to face her. The masked face was ridiculously stark. Giant shiny eye plates concealed the identity, but not the expression. She could see the whole costume now, mainly red on the top half, merging into blue on the bottom half.

"New in town?" he said. The voice was chirpy, almost boyish.

"Excuse me?" she whispered. Suddenly he seemed to be more of a cartoon character and less of a vigilante. "I don't understand."

The vigilante turned back to the beleaguered pilot. "Excuse me a second." He ambled over and There was a muffled but energetic exchange. The blue-red hero gripped the chunky belts buckled at the center of the flier's chest and piled a right fist into the helmeted face. Tosh felt sick, riveted to the spot.

He returned to stand in front of her. "Sorry you had to see that. Sometimes they won't stay down." He held out a palm in a kind helpful gesture. "Spider-Man."


	2. Chapter 2

"What?" she said again.

He pressed his palms to his chest, fingers curled on the creepy picture of a spider on his chest. Tosh twitched at the thought of a real one on his chest. "I'm the local neighborhood hero. Spider-Man," he said.

She nodded. "Pleased to meet you," she said. "Toshiko. I have to go." She stayed stuck to the spot.

"Some of them call me the Webhead Menace." He looked up to a ledge on an office block down the street. He raised a palm to point warmly to the distant spot. "You can call me Spidey." His head turned and the left eye plate almost winked. His body flew after the receding line as if he had no weight at all.

Tosh still held the two suitcases in taut fists.

 **:::**

NYPD had turned up within seconds of the departure of the weird man who had referred to himself as 'Spider-Man'. The press of the crowd as the yellow tape was unreeled pushed Tosh further and further back from the road. It was almost as if no-one had noticed her. No-one had noticed her talking to the amazing flying figure.

"Time for that coffee," said the seated beggar. She turned, still bewildered. He got up from the step and pushed his way across the street. Tosh followed until they reached the door of the diner. Most of the original customers had vacated to watch the street battle. New customers were trickling in, bored, as the sideshow wound down.

They watched thru the grubby window as the police searched visually for artefacts of the fighting.

"Tosh," she ventured.

"Giorgio," he said.

A plastic tent was erected over the crumpled figure.

"They work quick," Tosh noted. She sipped the oily black Americano and felt her headache clear.

"Must be something important." He slurped a giant hot chocolate brimming with marshmallow. "Or they want to open the street again in a hurry. Did you see what was in that bag? I think it was, like, millions of gold coins."

"Who's the young man in the stretchy pyjamas? You seem to recognize him."

"You've never heard of Spider-Man?"

"Well, yes", she mumbled. "He introduced himself. Now, I know him. But he looks like a trapeze artist with some kind of identity crisis."

"Yeah. But he has those webs and flies about. I think that must be the spider thing."

She sipped some more coffee, watched her eyes wobble in the reflection, growing and shrinking at random. "Is he a good guy? He seems like a polite enough young man."

"I don't recall him stopping to chat to me any time. But he beats up the bad guys." Giorgio started to tap the side of the cup. Tosh guessed that he might be in need of a cigarette. "He's like a crime fighter. So the papers and the bloggers call him a vigilante, but so what? Every now and again he roughs up some piece of street garbage. I'm a liberal, but he stands for something. We don't have to take crap from anyone. Now if we could get him to to do something about Wall Street…"

The horn from a large vehicle sounded disturbing their discussion. Two beeps like a British taxi driver would do to alert their arrival. Tosh then thought that, of course, it could be for her.

"This could be my ride," she said. She looked at the trickle of cars beginning to file past.

"There's about a thousand cars on this street. I think most of them honked to get by the cops."

Tosh heard her Blackberry chirping in her purse. Of course, someone was polling the device for its location. With the highest level of encryption it should only be her own people looking for her.

Then, to confirm her thoughts, a Dodge minivan was mounting the curb right outside the diner. The passenger window opened and a fresh faced young woman stuck her head out, apparently mid conversation.

"Sorry," said Tosh. "I've got to go." She really did feel that she was compelled to leave. Probably fear.

"Don't mind me," said Giorgio. His voice had a hint of grouch about it.

Tosh emptied out the loose change from her pockets. There were no notes. "Have your next coffee on me," she said. She felt lame. But she also felt the need to leave.

 **:::**

Tosh bundled her bags into the back seat of the Dodge, slumped back, and tried to smile.

"Welcome aboard the Greyhound Express," said the young man in the driver seat. "My name is Sheila, and this is Tony." He gestured to his colleague who rolled her eyes.

"Please ignore Tony," said Sheila. "It's supposed to be a joke."

"I love my handicapped vehicle," Tony beamed. He patted the rams-head logo on the steering column.

"It's a mobility vehicle, Tony," Sheila chided. "We don't use that word in England."

"I can use whatever word I bloody like," he sniffed. "I'm the cripple."

Sheila winced. "Just get our guest to the safe house. We'll leave the politics to the diplomats."

Tony put the minivan into 'Drive' and edged it out into the steadying traffic. Now the traffic police were waving the vehicles on their way, desperate to get everything back to normal.

Tosh slumped in the back seat and let her head fall onto her chest.

Sheila turned back to talk to her. "You can let go of those now," she grinned. "No-one here wants to steal your stuff."

Tony rocked his head in mild disagreement. Tosh thought that perhaps there were a few bits of Torchwood kit he would like to take a look at. But Tosh let go of the handles anyway, feeling the tension go in her arms at least.

"I thought I was at the safehouse already?" she said quietly. "Is this your idea of a joke? I know U*N*I*T like to piss us about. But we're on the same side."

Sheila turned again. "Sorry Tosh. There really was a safe house there in the 70s. Some idiot in Wiltshire used the legacy database to book all our accommodation. We were lucky that the Y.M.C.A. where we're staying is still there. That building is old as crap, maybe even a fire risk. But we'll sort out something for you there for now."


	3. Chapter 3

The minivan was slowly negotiating the crisscross of traffic at the corner of Central Park by Washington Square. Their faces and names began to tie up in Tosh's mind. She could recall the digital records of their names, occupations, and ages. And the U*N*I*T logo in the top thumbnail corner. "You guys ever work for Bruce?" She was vaguely recalling a previous encounter. "That mad bastard in Scotland."

Tony tutted. "Bruce is strictly T2, Ms. Sato. That's your lot. We may have worked with him…" His eyes flitted to meet Sheila's gaze, but she was looking down into her lap. The car jerked forward a few inches.

"The big shit's dead now," Sheila murmured. "Let's not dwell on it." She stared out onto the Park, noting the tourists milling around.

Tosh leaned forward. "Can you be sure?" She hated Bruce. She had heard of his death before in many places. She wanted it to be true.

Tony held the top of the steering wheel and tried again to catch Sheila's attention. He mimed a big shark of a bite. "As sure as watching reruns of _Jaws_."

"But the shark keeps coming back," Sheila mumbled. She was irritated by his chirpiness.

"No," he sighed, letting the minivan roll forward again. "It's a different shark in each film."

Tosh sat back. That was equally frightening. There was always one more shark.

 **:::**

Peter squatted out of sight on the top of the Arch and watched the traffic start to move again around Washington Square. He had meant to return to his apartment. There were photos to upload, there was money to be made, there were bills to pay. But he hesitated a little longer, watching the Dodge minivan finally escape the mesh of yellow cabs and delivery trucks.

He pulled the red mask forward onto his chest to let him breath in some of the sharp air. Even with the gasoline fumes and the stench of the drains, he loved the city during the day.

"I was so busy talking," he thought. "I can't remember what she said her name was." He looked over the ledge again. He was sure the name would come back to him. It was not really that important. He met people every day. There was no way to remember them all. He remembered the faces.

But he had felt a little rude. After taking down that idiot, the Pterodactyl, he should have been more caring. He had made it all about himself. Clearly, the young woman was shocked, and he had talked about himself.

"I should apologize," he thought. "Maybe check out that she's okay."

She was young, yes, but older than him. Why that made a difference he did not know.

He looked over the ledge again, pulled the mask back over his face. He focussed sharply on the receding traffic. There was an MTA bus following the Dodge. He figured that he could probably flip down onto the roof of the bus, note the licence plate, then fly away un-noticed.

He looked at the screen of the digital camera. Or he could just zoom in and take a picture from there. Peter knew he was clever. Today he felt it.

 **:::**

Wilson sat on the sand. He was usually embarrassed to be seen sitting on the ground. But this was a particularly secluded beach on a particularly remote part of the Pacific Coast.

"Wanna beer, Boss?" His helpful, unassuming guide, Pedro, was securing an awning between some idyllic palm trees. He pointed to a plastic crate of Buds sitting in a cooling stream.

Wilson considered the offer for a second. He had let himself relax for the first time in years. He was wearing relaxed clothes, thinking relaxed thoughts. The FBI were far away. But he was still the man he had made of himself. A glass of wine in the afternoon was most acceptable, a beer almost intolerable.

"No thank you, Pedro," he replied warmly. "Maybe some wine later on?"

" _Si._ " Pedro lit a cigarette. "There will be California's finest at the cabin." He puffed out a little cloud of dirty smoke. "And Cuba's finest too." He laughed at his own joke.

Wilson smiled slightly. He would have enjoyed a cigar at that moment. He nodded and waved to Pedro, indicating that a cigarette would do.

Pedro lit a second cigarette and brought it over. "A great view, eh Boss?" he said pointing at the beauty of the blue waves, the wisps of high white cloud. "Better than the big city!" he joked.

Wilson took a shallow draw on the cigarette. "A picture postcard, Pedro. But the life of the city has its own beauty." He thought briefly about all his projects on hold back in Manhattan. But he had to be patient. Time would reward him. "Does the cabin have Skype, Pedro? I need to make a call this evening."

Pedro nodded and flicked the cigarette into the unspoilt water. " _Si_ , Boss." He reached into his back pocket. "But there is FaceTime on my phone if you need to speak now?"

Wilson eyed the phone and sighed. His solitude was a very relative thing. Then he laughed. "This evening will be fine."

Wilson took another draw on the cigarette. He too flicked the end into the water. Beauty was spoilt so easily.

"You were a community leader in Mexico City, Pedro?" Wilson asked.

Pedro returned to the strips of wood holding up the canopy. " _Si_ , Boss. But you make me sound good. If a bad man put up an old grandmother's rent, I would have something to say." He mimed rapping a baseball bat into the palm of his hand. "That's all."

Wilson looked out to the ocean. "I'll need you to work with someone you might not like, Pedro. Can you do this?" Wilson ignored the irony that Pedro was so willing to work with him, Wilson Fisk, Kingpin of Crime in New York City. But Pedro was not against crime, he was against injustice. And, now and again, justice needed to crack some heads.

"I gave up my own comfort a long time ago, Boss. I work with this man, I work with that man. Next week, I will shoot this same man, push that other man out a window."

Wilson looked back to see Pedro staring across to him. "Present company excluded," Pedro joked. "I think we are always on the same wavelength." There were no nerves.

"Yes," said Wilson. "Yes, we do."


End file.
